The final book in Zola's twenty-novel Rougon-Macquart series.
hat! is it you, grandmother?" cried Clotilde, going to meet her. "Why, this sun is enough to bake one."
Felicite, kissing her on the forehead, laughed, saying:
"Oh, the sun is my friend!"
Then, moving with short, quick steps, she crossed the room, and turned the fastening of one of the shutters.
"Open the shutters a little! It is too gloomy to live in the dark in this way. At my house I let the sun come in."
Through the opening a jet of hot light, a flood of dancing sparks entered. And under the sky, of the violet blue of a conflagration, the parched plain could be seen, stretching away in the distance, as if asleep or dead in the overpowering, furnace-like heat, while to the right, above the pink roofs, rose the belfry of St. Saturnin, a gilded tower with arises that, in the blinding light, looked like whitened bones.
"Yes," continued Felicite, "I think of going shortly to the Tulettes, and I wished to know if Charles were here, to take him with me. He is not here--I see that--I will take h
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